


the cross that burns

by MaruruShipsIt



Category: The Last Kingdom (TV), The Warrior Chronicles | The Saxon Stories - Bernard Cornwell
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Mirror Sex, Power Play, Season/Series 01, at least that's when i imagined it happening lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:01:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25579261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaruruShipsIt/pseuds/MaruruShipsIt
Summary: "Touch me." It is both a request and a command, or rather a request for Uhtred to carry out his command. As said before, Alfred would brook no pleasure in a one-sided affair, not when he knows it to be true that Uhtred feels tenderly for him."Where, Lord?" The Dane's eyes narrow ever so slightly. A wave of vertigo rolls over Alfred’s person at the sight, the room spinning as a sweat breaks over his skin.I need him.His cross burns now, singeing his skin with a brand of God's divinity. He's crossed a line now, but there is still time if he wishes to put an end to this folly."Everywhere," he says, and his cross alights, incinerating his throat as Uhtred advances.
Relationships: Alfred the Great/Uhtred of Bebbanburg
Comments: 17
Kudos: 51
Collections: The Last Kingdom Fanfic Fest





	the cross that burns

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheBrokaryotes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBrokaryotes/gifts).



> This work is part of a collab fic with TheBrokaryotes, whose work a heathen's touch provides Uhtred's perspective of the fic! Their work is amazing so please don't leave them out <3

_ I need Uhtred. _

Three words that Alfred cannot deny the truth of, and also three words that can never reach the warrior’s ears. He is enough of a loose cannon without knowing that he is valuable enough to Alfred that if he ever had the nerve to deny his will then the king would take pains to accept it. His oath keeps him in check, yes, but Alfred wants him in chains. Uhtred's honor cannot be accounted for, and a man's word has nothing on physical restraints that shackle him to the crown he serves.

Alfred needs Uhtred in a different way, too—one that he despises no less than the first. The king wakes up in a cold sweat some nights after dreaming of Uhtred, his dreams as innocuous as the Devil himself, and much as he hates to admit it, the Dane has infected his mind with his hedonistic, heathen ways. On his better days, Alfred's immoral thoughts can be cleansed from his head with a quick wash, which he attends to in the earliest hours of the morning. On his worse days, they demand some several hours of prayer.

Today, the Saxon King has paced his writing room for a morning over, hands clasped tightly behind his back until his knuckles turned white as he curses the existence of that low-bred Dane and his sins. All the usual tricks did not work; Alfred has washed, he has prayed, he has written, and he has provoked Uhtred to his ugly Danish face, and yet images of him still flash through Alfred's mind unprompted. It is infuriating how the warrior has so skilfully worked his way beneath his king's skin and now exhibits his powers of coercion upon him.

Very well, then. The warrior asked for it, begged for it even. Alfred will give him what he wants and take from him what he wants in return as well.

"Uhtred," Alfred greets the warrior in a light and untroubled tone—one that does not reflect the inner workings of his mind—when the warrior is granted passage into his writing room. Seeing the other man does not quench his thirst for him as the king had fruitlessly hoped it would; rather, his desire for the other man only grows.

_ Heathen, _ his mind whispers.

"Lord King." Uhtred returns his greeting in a monotone, cocking his head listlessly to the side as coal-black eyes flicker to lock with Alfred’s own. His insolent attitude tries the king’s patience to its limits most days, and despite his inclination for the man, his brow still twitches at Uhtred’s irksome manner of address.

"I have an assignment for you, if you are willing." Alfred is generous to add that last part. Whether Uhtred is willing or not does not matter, though the king would take little pleasure in their encounter if he was not. It matters not, as Uhtred has been the one to bring Alfred to the state he is in now.

“That depends on the assignment,” Uhtred conditions when Alfred poses his question, tilting his head and raising a brow, entwining his fingers over his belly. He looks a mixture of clueless and uninterested in whatever Alfred has to say, as always.

Alfred moves to face the window, his profile shining in the mellow rays of light that filter through the glass pane as he looks through it. The image of his kingdom stretches from corner to corner of the horizon, all rolling hills and towering trees. Its beauty is grounding for the king, who has found comfort in his country so many times before in his hours of need. To lower himself to this position of needing Uhtred so badly is humiliating in and of itself, but the warrior has tested him to the limits of his patience. He can waste no more time deceiving himself.

“It is of a personal sort," Alfred responds evenly, lifting his chin as he turns away from the window and stalks toward his disobedient servant until their profiles are opposite each other. "I wish to know my enemies, the Danes. You yourself are a Dane, Uhtred, so you will help me in this aspect." He carefully leaves the other man no choice but to comply with his wishes.

It does not escape his notice how Uhtred shifts his weight to maintain a semblance of distance as he closes in, countenance clouding with reluctance and a lack of comprehension of his wishes. Despite that, his eyes drop to Alfred’s lips for a fleeting moment—nothing misses Alfred’s notice, of course he saw it—and no extent of Alfred’s imagination can explain away the flicker of hunger in the warrior’s dark gaze. The glance was instantaneous, a blink of an eye and he would have missed it, but he feels as though he’s been scorched by lightning all the same.

“What would you want to know?” Uhtred answers in that low, gravelly accent of his, head rising in turn with familiar defiance as Alfred studies him. He drinks in the Dane’s toned physique with a keen eye; no matter what gods Uhtred thinks he may serve, there is no denying that he has been blessed by them with confidence in body and soul. As though a torch has been lit, his belly flares with a pang; interestingly, it is more one of passion than another of his painful episodes.

He steps forward once more, this time advancing directly into the Dane’s space until they are nearly nose to nose with each other. Uhtred’s nostrils flare with what could be trepidation, or perhaps anticipation.

“I have heard tales of Danish prowess,” Alfred rolls his tongue thoughtfully over the word, innocent enough in connotation but easily construed as a more salacious term with context, “But I’ve yet to witness it for myself. You will teach me of their... bodily weaknesses.”

Uhtred's gaze floods first with understanding, then shock and finally expectation. He blinks before glancing about the area directly above Alfred’s head, and the apple of his throat bobs as he works to respond. Words do not seem to come as easily to him as they do to Alfref—normally, the king reasons it down to the language barrier between them, but today it is likely more due to surprise. He enjoys the moments when he can surprise the other man; it is always wise to keep Uhtred on his toes as a reminder of his subordinate status.

Alfred looks down at Uhtred through his lashes now, a magnetic pull bringing him closer still. The cross round his neck warms with a tepid heat as though to ward him away from sin, but for once, Alfred ignores the warning. Tempted by a voice in his ear that he does not recognize as his own God, Alfred slips up, gaze falling to Uhtred’s mouth, which pulls down into a childish, pouty frown.  _ Devil take him and his temptations away. _

"What weaknesses are of interest to you, Lord?" the warrior eventually inquires, and the fact that he even has to ask after Alfred has practically spelled it out for him amuses him. The king’s lips curve into a sensual smile.

"It is a matter of curiosity. I find the subject of your people's hedonistic practices to be... troublingly intriguing. You will sate this curiosity for me, Uhtred. You will do exactly as I tell you. And I will watch." As he speaks, Alfred recreates the distance between them, leaning against his writing desk as he fixes a cool gaze on Uhtred's chest, unabashed now that he has stated his intentions clear and simple for the remaining party in the room.

The Dane’s eyes follow him as he glides from one end of the expansive room to the other, gaze dropping to his hands as Alfred's long fingers wrap around the head of the table and brace at the corners so he can lift himself onto it. Is he thinking about how they would feel on his own flesh? Alfred has taken notice of the Dane's rough, calloused fingers too many times for him to count.  _ Escaping temptation is nigh impossible with this man, _ he thinks.

The warrior's ebon gaze now rakes Alfred's body like hot coals, stirring the flame that already burns low and hot within the king’s gut. Has he, this whole time, known the effect he has upon his king? Alfred would not put it past him. Uhtred is not as crafty as he, nor as wily—rarely have others beyond Alfred's extended family managed to match him wit for wit in his lifetime—but he is suspect, for certain.

When the warrior finally moves, it is stiff and unnatural, like a puppet on strings, gait slowed to an infant’s crawl until he is a hair's-width away from Alfred's legs. The king spreads for him in a conditional invitation, parting his lips to breathe out a soft sigh through the mouth as Uhtred advances. The Dane's left hand grazes his thigh, fingers tightening almost imperceptibly when Alfred fixes his gaze on his face. It's been tinted silver by the moonlight, giving Uhtred the appearance of having two faces—one the fair Saxon with trepidation in eye, the other a Dane of dark features and heart. 

_ Which are you, then, _ he wonders, heart trembling at the very sight.

Uhtred's eyes alight with flame as Alfred reaches out to unbuckle his belt, his fingers hastening with impatience. The moonlight recedes, leaving behind only one image of Uhtred; it is, as ever, the Dane who consorts with the Devil, who sins for sport and makes a fool of the one true God. Alfred wants the Dane, he wants the sinner, the tempter, the  _ heathen. _ Uhtred will be the heathen who answers the call of no single god, but only the call of his king.

Uhtred draws his tongue over his lips, inhaling in a deep and unsteady breath, rattling the air around them. The king feels the atmosphere shift, obscuring all but the two of them in pitch black. 

History will document none of this moment, but with Uhtred's fingers braced on Alfred's thighs, eyes baring him naked for all to see as the space between them is reduced, Alfred thinks he will remember it as one of the few moments in his life where his emotions far outweighed his logic.

"Touch me." It is both a request and a command, or rather a request for Uhtred to carry out his command. As said before, Alfred would brook no pleasure in a one-sided affair, not when he knows it to be true that Uhtred feels tenderly for him.

"Where, Lord?" The Dane's eyes narrow ever so slightly. A wave of vertigo rolls over Alfred’s person at the sight, the room spinning as a sweat breaks over his skin.  _ I need him. _ His cross burns now, singeing his skin with a brand of God's divinity. He's crossed a line now, but there is still time if he wishes to put an end to this folly.

"Everywhere," he says, and his cross alights, incinerating his throat as Uhtred advances.

He brings them together in a crashing kiss, one that rivals the scourge of sin with pure and unadulterated passion. It steals a dense cloud of air from Alfred's lips and Alfred steals breath in turn, moaning into the Dane's mouth as he’s swept in a rush of exhilaration. He wishes to dig his nails into Uhtred’s shoulder blades and leave red markings, to taste Uhtred as the warrior swipes his tongue greedily over his swollen lips, and to have him wholly.

There is still much to be done yet, however—to catch the warrior’s attention as he pulls away, Alfred tangles his fingers in his hair and roughly tugs his head up.

"Not so fast," he purrs, rising and gliding past the other man to open an enjoining door which leads to his chambers. "Follow." He flicks a finger, and again in that stiff and unnatural gait, Uhtred does.

As he awaits the Dane’s arrival, Alfred busies himself by unclasping his robes. He'd had the foresight to rearrange his bedchambers in order to best suit their encounter and glances expectantly at the mirror he'd set aside for their experiment before looking back to the doorway. Uhtred steps hesitantly through the threshold, eyes wide as if he fears an ambush, and the reaction brings a predatory smirk to Alfred’s lips. For once, he truly feels as if he is the one with the upper hand, even despite their yawning class divide.

Uhtred’s brow furrows when he spots the mirror and he glances from the king to it and then back again like a perplexed mutt. The questioning gleam in his eyes is replaced by incredulity as he realizes that Alfred  _ planned _ for this.

"Touch me," Alfred orders once again, the sultry timbre of his voice sending ripples throughout the room. Dark eyes meet his from across the room, glitter with greedy intent, and the warrior crosses. Fingers brace at Alfred's ass as their lips meet once again in another battle for breath and dominance.

Uhtred tugs insistently at Alfred’s breeches as they rock together, demanding entrance with a pinched brow and a rumbling huff of annoyance. Alfred pushes away his cumbersome palms before he can take them anywhere further, fixing the Dane with a look before untying them with deft fingers and slipping them smoothly down his hips. Uhtred’s drinks in Alfred’s image like a young boy taking the wine of Christ, lips parting like he wishes to swallow him.

By the end of the night, the king hopes that will be the endgame.

God's gaze burns hotter even than Uhtred's hooded eyes, which bare every last inch of Alfred's skin to bone when he releases himself from his garments. He shivers at the sudden exposure, not only to the cool air but also the heathen's mercy—if he has any at all. All reserve drains from Uhtred's countenance, apprehension replaced by naught but a stark hunger. He is transformed, like the story of the wolf-man who becomes beast when the moon rises above the trees.  _ Yes, you are a simple beast, and I the sphere in the sky that shackles you to your fate. _

Uhtred’s hands crawl over Alfred’s body, dipping into crevices yet unexplored, igniting sparks of pleasure that kick and scream over his flesh. The king arches his back into Uhtred’s thighs, which have clamped around his hips to secure him, and he feels the other man twitch in surprise when his cock brushes against him. Another smirk, more amused than sultry this time, crosses Alfred’s features. 

Upon seeing it, Uhtred descends upon him in a rough tangle of limbs and teeth, tearing at Alfred's lips and ripping all the breath from his lungs at once. He treats Alfred with none of the servility that he has grown accustomed to demanding, searing a messy line of bruises along his neck and leaving an angry flush that, upon seeing it reflected back to him within the mirror's confines, sends a rushing thrill that the king feels in every nerve of his mortal vessel. Uhtred is as rough as he'd suspected he would be, and rougher; the Dane dives at his throat like a ravenous wolf, grazing a honed fang over Alfred's racing pulse and suckling. Alfred arches his spine acrobatically, an instinctive response, as a soft pant rolls from his lips in sync with Uhtred’s animalistic growl. 

Uhtred's eyes, blackened with sinister intent, roll upwards to meet Alfred's through the reflective apparatus, poring over the image of their shared euphoria as though it is ale he can drink and be drunk on. Alfred will not have that—he is the one to be enjoying this scene, the other man is merely a means to experience it. He nearly eats his words when Uhtred cups his lips below his jawline and suckles away a throbbing bruise that only further enhances the sight of them.

"You burn," Alfred breathes, though he refers to the scalding heat of God's divinity rather than the man above him. Another cursory glance through the mirror marks two strikes, and as punishment Alfred wrenches forcefully at Uhtred's thick locks, unsympathetic to the way that the warrior balks in affront. He is no injured animal, yelping at the pull of a tail or thump of a nose; the Dane is a rabid, dangerous creature, bearing sharp teeth and a will too strong and free for any but a great man to tame. Alfred will be the one to rein him in, tether him to his crown and bend him to God's will.

Leaning up until their noses brush, the king swipes his tongue over chapped lips until they are moist and full of his taste. "Shall I blindfold you?" he whispers into Uhtred's mouth, stealing air and whatever else the warrior owes him from within. "Would that provide an incentive to obey my orders, perhaps? I commanded you to touch me, yet no such permission was granted for you to spectate.” Uhtred’s eyes flicker back to him and he continues, voice snapping like a whip. "You will keep your eyes where they belong, or you will lose them."

Alfred delivers his order as he does in public, coldly and firmly, in a stark contrast to the warm slick of their bodies rubbing synchronously against each other, generating a wicked pleasure as friction and heat condense like a cloud between the pair of them. From the moment that Uhtred's first fingertip descended and sent a boom of thunder reverberating within Alfred's skull, a yawning pit of the most ungodly temptations opened in his belly, swallowing all his holiness and his kingliness. In their absence, he is left a pauper in the eyes of the Lord, a poor man who thirsts not for fortune but for the temptations of the flesh.

The Dane's ribs shudder at the threat, rising and falling in an unstable rhythm that matches the serrated half-smirk which cuts through his jaw like the blade of a knife. A flash of teeth glints from between the warrior's lips and a pricking sensation makes itself known in the king's nape, despite the figurative nature of the metaphor. "Yes, Lord," Uhtred rumbles with a provocative roll of his tongue over Alfred's pulse point, one which has the king seeing constellations blink before his eyes. Alfred watches as his mirror twin arches upwards, another desperate gasp puffing from his lips, and the ecstasy reflected within his gaze is so deep it would bring him to his knees were he not already too far gone beyond that point.

They roll over each other like rutting mutts for long, the room misting in silence but for the sound of their lustful pleasures and the noises that rise to the king's surface, frothing and steaming. The image of himself writhing and canting beneath his greatest sword, skin flushed and glowing with the sticky excess of their bodies, is so compelling he can hardly keep his eyes trained on a single fixed point. Uhtred's mouth at his neck looks so natural and correct, the bruises he leaves so proud of their place at his jawline and each boasting a fetching red glare.

Little time passes before the king begins to squirm and roll his hips with more rapidity, pants coming in quicker and shallower breaths, the vapors that bubble at his skull begging for a release before he boils over. He tightens his grip on Uhtred's shoulders as the warrior twists his tongue over his nipple, so deft and delicate it makes his chest ache. " _ More _ , Uhtred," he enjoins in a tone so purely wanting one would wonder who truly possesses the power in their dynamic.

One last kiss of promise to the king's chest and the Dane recedes from his position, rising to his feet and opening his mouth to presumably pose a query. "The drawer," Alfred murmurs, jerking his chin towards the night-table at his bedside. The sound of sticky footsteps, the rattling of a wooden drawer, the clinking of a vial and the sloshing of liquid warble in the king's ears as Uhtred bustles about his chamber. Too impatient to await his return to the sheets, Alfred slips one slick palm beneath his belly to stroke at his hardened cock. The euphoria that pierces his belly is so unlike the typical pangs of pain that have plagued him since his childhood, so overwhelming that it draws a rolling moan from his lips.

" _ Now, _ Uhtred," Alfred insists, twisting to fix his eyes on the other man who has stood over him like a simpleton in order to make his displeasure known. The warrior starts at the suddenness of the command before he strips in a single instant, throwing his shirt haphazardly over his head and kicking his garb to the side after stepping from his breeches. The sound of sloshing liquid tickles the king's ears once again— _ get on with it already! _ — and then there is a tickle at his spine as cool fluid drips over his shoulder blades.

It's a reflex to flinch both at the sudden temperature change and at the electrifying sensation of fingers prying at Alfred's entrance, working him open like a contraption. Lips press feather-light to his backside, kissing away the droplets of oil that trickle over his nape, fingertips rubbing pacifying circles over a stinging scratch on his shoulder where Uhtred's nails pierced his skin. At the same time, a single finger worms its way between the king's cheeks and he keens, arching forward in a desperate roll of his hips.

Every kiss Uhtred presses to Alfred's flushed skin, every finger that he drags over his chest and shoulders, every cant of Alfred's hips as Uhtred ruts over him with fervor has been reflected back to him in the mirror in the most erotic, sinful image, but it is nothing compared to what he feels when he watches Uhtred's fingertip press into his body in one forceful, fluid action. Seeing his back arch as the shine of pleasure in his eyes gleams white-hot is the penultimate pleasure, second only to the pleasure of  _ feeling  _ Uhtred enter him.

It is the most exquisite reward, one that even the glory of God does not compare to. The king's heart has not stopped its vociferous pounding since the beginning, thrumming against its ribcage in a banging, throbbing rhythm that rattles his core to and fro. The rocking of their bodies in perfect unison is so aesthetically pleasing, so perfect in its sensuality that it is almost enough to send Alfred off in the heat of the moment. Uhtred crawls over him on hands and knees, aligning his cock with the king’s entrance, and with every passing moment Alfred feels his pseudo-intoxicated state reach new heights.

"Fuck me, Uhtred," the words fall from his lips in a single breath, so quickly he almost thinks he imagined them. The swear tastes delicious on his tongue, like all the carnal delights he'd denied himself since his coronation, and let it never be said that Alfred did not crave meat and flesh. "Fuck me," he babbles once more into the sheets, clawing needily at the soft fabric until his nails leave faded markings. To be so close to having the Dane within him but not yet having reached that point is almost too much.

The two of them share a shudder of body and breath as Uhtred directs his cock over Alfred's entrance, sending the most desperate signals through his body and setting fire to every part of him. Uhtred's hands slide into position at his hips, squeezing firmly enough to coerce another needy keening sound from his lips. He parts them again to plead further action, but no sound comes out.

When the Dane finally enters him, the shock of feeling is so overwhelming he tightens instinctively, a short gasp of breath puffing from his mouth. Uhtred scatters pecks and nips over the divots in the king's spine as he sheathes himself within the king's conclave, fingertips rubbing soothing circles at his hips which cant and roll instinctively. They slide together in harmonic motion, rocking like a boat on the open seas. It is the calm before a storm, if said storm were to rain fire rather than sharp bundles of sleet and hail.

Finally, Uhtred's thighs are flush with Alfred's cheeks and the king is made whole by his cock, slick with their excess and of a size that causes no acute amount of the most exquisite agony to him. The warrior's hands ascend gradually from his backside to his shoulders, teasing gently at the curve of Alfred's spine and the jut of his shoulder blades before snaking beneath his elbows to palm at his pectorals. The taste of temptation falls to the tip of the king's tongue, but it is not enough. He wishes to taste the Devil's worship, just this once; just this once, he will give into his cravings which make him human, and when all is said and done, he will beg for God’s mercy.

"When I give a command, I expect it to be obeyed," the king barks, "Or is that not what your Dane brethren have taught you? I requested for you to teach me of them and so you shall, lest you be found lacking by your king."

It appears that his words hit their mark, answered with a low rumble of a snarl and a pinched brow, the Dane's eyes darkening with a bloody mixture of anger and passion. Uhtred leans over Alfred until his lips are to the king's ear, provoking a shiver that dances over his entire spine, and murmurs an assent.

"Yes, Lord." His voice is hoarse and roughened from the results of their escapade and it only further escalates Alfred's lustful state. The next thing he knows, the warrior's fingers are digging into his abdomen as he drives forward, provoking twin moans from their lips that curl into the air like wisps of smoke from a fire. The Dane replicates the action, sending a belated burst of euphoria through his veins.

Uhtred picks up the pace now, thrusting into him with a new voracity, palm resting over Alfred's spine to ground him as he moans and bucks into the sheets, bunching them up in his fingers until his knuckles fade into a ghostly white. Uhtred is putting on a show now, he knows it to be true; there is a telling gleam in the Dane's eyes as he ruts over the king's writhing form, and it sets sparks in his belly.

"You said you wanted to watch, so tell me, how does it look?" Uhtred purrs above him, tongue flicking out to lap at Alfred's neck and nip an angry red mark into creamy skin as he cants into him once more. It's so forceful the king has to bite back a cry for mercy, no sound but breath escaping his lips.

"You—ah—you are not the one… to be asking questions, oh God—!” Alfred cries out, clamping his legs together when Uhtred rams into him with enough force to have him buckling instantly. His climax arrives in a shock of freezing cold and then strikes hot like a bolt of exquisite lightning as he spills onto the bedsheets, lips parted in a silent cry.

Behind him, Uhtred muffles a shout into Alfred's nape—one so loud it would have alerted the whole castle to their whereabouts, God forbid—as the warm slick of Uhtred's excess fills him with the most intimate rapture. The Dane seals their act in soft pecks to the king's nape and kneading hands at his shoulder blades, producing a sense of peace and closure as he soothes the red marks over Alfred's skin.

Uhtred extracts himself from the king's person with a delicacy and caution that had not been present moments ago, watching with hooded eyes as Alfred dresses. The warrior's gaze no longer burns as it once did, leaving only a steady warmth on his skin as he slips into his garments. "This will not leave this room," Alfred says to fill the silence that has fallen, and in the corner of his eye the warrior jerks, lifting his head to stare at him open-mouthed.

"I... understand, Lord," the Dane says eventually, eyes darting every which way before he turns to leave, no word of a goodbye passing from his lips.

"I did not say you could leave yet," he says out loud, lifting his head as Uhtred freezes in his tracks at the command, one hand already raised to push the wooden door trapping him in the king's chambers. Slowly he makes his way to the Dane's side, circling around him so that he blocks the other man's only escape route.

_ It is a sin, but God, I want him,  _ Alfred thinks, sending a silent plea of penance to the Heavens for his transgression. He fingers the crucifix at his throat as words form at the roof of his mouth and fall to his tongue. To think them is no difficulty at all; to say them is a hardship.

"It would seem that I have much to learn yet, if you are perchance interested in becoming a tutor," the king says evenly, expression unreadable despite the emotional turmoil in his gut.  _ I should not have asked, this is wrong, I am a sinner, he is going to refuse me, how could he possibly say yes _ —

Though he knows it's just the Devil playing tricks upon his eyes, Alfred could swear a halo lights at the fringes of Uhtred's face as he twitches a faint smile and gives his assent. "As you wish, Lord," the Dane says before he ducks through the doorway, leaving Alfred alone with his tumultuous thoughts. 

The king sends another silent prayer to God for his penance before he returns to his letters, though he writes not a single word until prayer-time.


End file.
